Chapter Four: Routine

In the dim light of the warehouse, he settled into a makeshift training routine, piecing together exercises from his manuals and what he could remember from his previous life. His days began before dawn, the cold seeping in through broken windows as he worked through warm-ups to shake off the stiffness of sleep. With the small pile of supplies he'd scavenged from the thrift store, he set up an area for training. For weights, he used metal scraps and chunks of concrete, all strategically stacked or tied together to mimic barbells. The building had pipes that ran along the ceiling beams, so he made use of those too, swinging up into pull-ups until his muscles burned and he felt the blood pumping hard through his body.

Every day started and ended with some variation of this self-taught workout. He forced himself through squats, lunges, push-ups, and shoulder presses, using bricks and rusted metal to add weight. He trained relentlessly, aware that Gotham was unforgiving. Even with Ted's guidance, he knew he'd have to take his conditioning seriously. His manuals reminded him to focus on building his core strength and agility, foundational elements to the styles he intended to master.

After he spent each early morning working himself to the brink of exhaustion, he would head to Ted's for his boxing training. And while Ted's gym was no pristine academy, it was packed with everything a fighter needed: old, torn punching bags, a well-worn ring, and a variety of weights. But most importantly, it had Ted.

On Monday, Wednesday, and Friday mornings, Ted put him through rigorous lessons, starting with the absolute basics.

"All right, kid, before you even think about throwin' a punch, you gotta learn how to stand," Ted barked, his grizzled voice filling the room.

Ted was a stickler for footwork, making him practice shifting his weight back and forth, in and out, always staying light on his feet. The older man drilled him on maintaining a proper stance and adjusting his balance to flow easily with his punches.

"Think of it as a dance, but one where your partner is trying to take your head off," Ted said with a rough chuckle.

Punching drills came next. Ted had him work on the jab, the cross, and the hook, all while barking corrections and encouragements. The teen's fists were raw and bruised by the end of each day, but he felt a growing sense of satisfaction as he picked up each technique, even if only by the littlest of bits. As he grew more comfortable with the basic punches, Ted added in new techniques like the uppercut and the feints, and he slowly learned how to bob and weave.

"You keep that chin down, got it?" Ted reminded him constantly, a glint of pride showing through the older man's usual gruffness. "Kid like you might actually stand a chance if you keep at it."

Tuesday and Thursday, when he had the gym to himself, or rather Ted was focusing on others, he focused on cardio. He'd taken Ted's advice and would run laps around the East End, passing alleyways full of junkies and empty storefronts with windows boarded shut. He'd run fast, arms pumping and heart racing, feeling the burn in his lungs. Ted hadn't yet taught him how to throw a full combination, but he practiced his footwork and shadow-boxing on his own, trying to internalize each movement.

Through these mornings, he caught glimpses of Ted's own routine. Between rounds, Ted would read the Gotham Gazette, grumbling to himself about the latest city politics or some new villain popping up downtown. Ted had no filter when it came to his opinions, especially about Gotham's crime scene.

"This city… it eats people alive," Ted muttered one morning, folding the paper and tossing it aside. "You got these guys calling themselves 'superheroes,' but Gotham's still a sewer. And then you got a bunch of these little tag-a-longs—sidekicks or whatever."

That was how he first heard about the sidekicks. The Gazette ran an article profiling the younger heroes—Robin, Aqualad, and Kid Flash. Vicki Vale, Gotham's newest and potentially only reputable journalist, was all about trying to understand these "teenage heroes and future of heroics" as she'd labelled them. Ted called it "heroic babysitting," scoffing as he skimmed through the story.

But what caught his eye wasn't just the sidekick piece—it was the date. November 28, 2009. His mind froze. He realized that whatever strange timeline he was in, he had arrived at a point when the Justice League wasn't as massive as it would eventually become. Names were absent, and the League was far from the powerhouse he'd read about in comics or seen in the shows. The world as a whole was raw and full of crime and the like, The league still in its infancy couldn't handle such a magnitude of it all, hell the league only had 15 members.

After that the next few days blurred by and December reeled its ugly head, the cold making itself known in his little ole warehouse but despite this he pushed himself relentlessly. Balancing Ted's boxing drills with the self-imposed challenges from his manuals was no easy task. The manual on Haki was proving to be as challenging as he'd expected. Garp's advice—if it could be called that—was as blunt as his punches. "Hit stuff until it doesn't hurt." A typical line, but he took it to heart. He spent hours punching walls in the warehouse, knuckles bleeding until he could feel the faintest prickle of power in his hands, a warmth that surged through his veins, but the moment he tried to focus on that feeling it disappeared. It was just the start, but it kept him going.

For Observation Haki, Garp's advice was even more blunt and basic. "Don't get hit", Ted was unknowingly helping him with this, as the old man's sharp eyes caught every slip, every mistake and in his words of 'tough love', punch the ever living daylights out of him, he would dodge some times, but that would only delay the inevitable. Ted's hits weren't gentle reminders either—they stung, forcing him to stay alert, to anticipate movements before they happened. Maybe 1/1000 times he'd succeed, but each one he dodged meant he was getting better at sensing the intent of an attacker

The Six Powers manual from Koby was even more grueling. It outlined the physical conditioning required to begin mastering the techniques, and it wasn't for the faint-hearted. For the Tekkai technique alone, Koby suggested a brutal regimen: 10,000 squats, 10,000 push-ups, 10,000 crunches—each one meant to build the strength and resilience required to harden his body to the point where even bullets would have trouble penetrating. It would take anyone else a year, but he was determined to push himself, aiming to do it all in six months. His body screamed in protest every day, muscles burning and throbbing, but he never stopped.

On Saturday and Sunday, he'd allow himself to rest, heeding Ted's advice. But even during those days, he wouldn't stay still for long. He would run through visualization exercises, memorizing the techniques, or practicing his breathing to prepare for the intensity of his training.

Ted noticed the change, even if he never directly acknowledged it. "Keep that fire, kid," he said one day, giving him a rare nod of approval. "Not many can make it in this city. Gotta have guts, and you've got 'em."

As the days turned into weeks, he adapted. The raw exhaustion he'd felt every day began to lessen, replaced by a growing sense of strength, a rhythm. He was no prodigy, but he was determined. And though he didn't know what the future held, he felt an undeniable drive pushing him forward, a relentless voice reminding him that whatever his past life had held, he was here now—alive, fighting, and learning.

Author Note: 

Hey been a while, but here's the next chapter, I've been working on some other things that I've been posting over on w-a-t-t-p-a-d. A BNHA story if that interests anybody I may post it over here but I don't know yet.

Till next time!

-Daedalus19